87 Letters
by allthingsdecent
Summary: Another attempt at a post-Moving On fic.
1. Chapter 1

It felt surreal to be back at the hospital—everything the same, but different.

The same muted wall paint, the same reassuringly neutral carpeting, the same blandly antiseptic smell.

But of course, everything was different, too. He had just been released into the custody of Foreman, no less, from a medium security prison. He had no team. An orthopedic unit had taken over his old office. And, as far as he knew, his two best friends weren't speaking to him.

"Cuddy wants to see you," Foreman said. He started leading House down the hallway.

"I was in prison, not an Alzheimer's ward," House said. "I can find her office on my own."

"She specifically said that she wants me there, too," Foreman replied.

House tried to mask his disappointment. He gave a half shrug.

They made their way to Cuddy's office. House's heart was pounding so loudly in his chest he feared that Foreman could actually hear it.

They opened the door.

She looked great, of course. But then, she always did. She was wearing one of her killer power suits —a dark gray color, with a cream-colored lace camisole underneath. Her hair was a little longer—it hung in loose waves around her face.

"Madame Warden, I presume?" House joked, trying to keep his voice steady.

She looked at him, did not smile.

"I agreed to Foreman's little plan to get you out of prison because I know you can do more good out here than in there," she said sharply, resting some papers on her desk.

"But here's how it's going to go, House. You are not going to report to me anymore. You are going to report to Foreman. You submit all insurance forms and all staffing requests to him. You want a biopsy? Talk to Foreman. You want approval for a transplant? Talk to Foreman. You want to blow up someone's brain? Talk to Foreman. If you have a problem with Foreman, tough. He's your new boss. As for me, you don't talk to me, you don't look at me, you avoid me in the hall. Is that understood?"

House's mouth dropped open. He looked for some sign that she was joking, but she was dead serious.

"Yes," he said dumbly.

"Foreman, you okay with this?"

"Absolutely," Foreman said.

"Then we're done here," Cuddy said. She looked back down at her papers.

Foreman started to leave, but House just stood there, frozen in his tracks.

"C'mon House," Foreman said, almost gently.

"Wait," House said. He looked at Cuddy, "Can I talk to you for a second alone?"

"No," she said. Her face was nearly an impenetrable mask, but House saw her bottom lip quiver just the tiniest bit. So she was human, after all.

"Please," he said. "Foreman can wait right outside the door, okay? I just need one minute of your time."

Cuddy sighed, exasperated. She looked at Foreman, nodded a bit.

"I'll be right outside," Foreman said. His new alliance with Cuddy made him feel omnipotent.

"What?" she said testily, after he left.

House was taken aback by the anger in her voice.

"How are you?" he said.

"None of your business. We don't have personal conversations anymore, House."

"How's Rachel?" he said, ignoring her.

Now Cuddy's eyes flashed: "And you never, ever say her name again—understand?"

House swallowed hard. His shoulders slumped.

"Did you at least get my letters?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

"And. . .?"

"I burned them. Now go back to work and make yourself useful House. Don't make me regret my decision."

He didn't really get it at first. A few days later, he wandered into Cuddy's office to complain about Foreman.

"Get out," she said.

"But he's being completely irrational!" he said.

"Get out House, before I call security," she said, picking up the phone.

He looked at her incredulously, then left.

#####

He saw her in the hallway a few times, said "hi," but she strode by purposefully each time and ignored him.

Once, he got on an elevator she was on, but she exited the minute she saw him.

"Really Cuddy?" he said, as the elevator door closed.

####

"She despises me," he moaned to Wilson later that day. (It had been surprisingly easy to win Wilson over. One good clock to the jaw and he was back in his best friend's good graces.)

"What did you expect?"

"Anger, sure," House said. "But she's been positively arctic. It's been 3 weeks. No thaw whatsoever."

"You crashed a car into her house!" Wilson exclaimed. "She and Rachel had to live with her mother for four months."

"And I went to jail for a year!" House said. Then he added, only half-joking, "Although it's possible I got the better end of that deal."

Wilson scratched his head.

"You do realize that Cuddy didn't do anything wrong, don't you? You're the criminal. She's the victim."

"She lied to me," House muttered.

"What lie?"

"She told me she wasn't seeing anyone when she was clearly screwing that guy. It was a fucking Norman Rockwell tableaux. One big happy family."

Wilson's jaw dropped open.

"Get a grip, House. There never was a guy. That was just some colleague of Julia's. It was the first—and last—time Cuddy ever saw him."

"Oh," House said. He suddenly felt a bit ridiculous. His hatred of that unworthy little prick was all that kept him going in prison sometimes.

"Well, how was I supposed to know that?" he said lamely.

"Good point, House. Your insane act of violence would've been completely justified if Cuddy actually had been dating that guy."

House cast his eyes to the ground. He sighed.

"I wrote her 86 letters in jail, Wilson. Eighty-six. She burned them all."

"She's done with you. Move on. She has."

"She's never done with me," he said stubbornly. "Just like I'm never done with her."

"House, you want to do the right thing by Cuddy for a change?"

"Of course," House said.

"Then respect her wishes and leave her alone. It's the most decent thing you could possibly do."

#####

House took Wilson's advice and gave Cuddy her space. It was painful—almost unbearable at times. But it was what she had asked for—and probably what he deserved.

But four months later, he and Cuddy found themselves forced to interact for the first time.

He had been sued for malpractice—again. This actually happened quite often—the hospital even kept a separate legal fund just for such occasions (although, in fairness to House, most of the money for the fund came from grants he had secured from grateful patients.).

Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they were able to settle out of court. But in this one particular case, the plaintiffs—the elderly brother and sister of a man who had died of a stroke on the operating table under House's care—were being intractable.

Both House and Cuddy were due in court. The hospital arranged a car and driver for them. Cuddy was going to sit in the front seat, but decided that would just call attention to herself. So she slid into the backseat next to him.

"Sorry you have to do this, Cuddy," House said, edging away from her, so he was almost pressed up against the door.

He had dressed up for the occasion in a blue suit and red tie. He had even shaved.

"It's my job," Cuddy said, reaching into her purse for a compact and fixing her makeup.

He looked at her longingly for a second, then leaned his head against the window, and said nothing.

In court, she was forced to testify on his behalf.

"Dr. House cures the incurable," she said. "But he only can do that if he's allowed to practice medicine his own way—with a little bit of reckless abandon."

She was looking straight ahead, addressing the lawyer, not making eye contact with House at all.

"His methods are unconventional, radical even, but he saves lives," she continued. "Take away his ability to take risks and you take away part of his genius. When Dr. House is allowed to practice freely, without fear of baseless malpractice suits"—here she glanced, briefly, at the plaintiffs—"there is no better doctor in the world. I've said it many times before and I'll say it again, if a family member or dear friend was sick, I would move mountains to get that loved one to Dr. House."

Her kind words were like a balm to House's soul. She hadn't so much as smiled at him in five months. But she still wouldn't look at him.

After she spoke, the plaintiffs' lawyers hastily asked for a recess and another settlement was quickly arranged. House never even had to testify.

They drove back to the hospital in another uncomfortable silence.

Finally, House spoke: "What you said in there . . . I appreciate it."

"Don't mention it," she said.

"Did you really mean all that?"

"Of course I meant it," she said. "I don't make a habit out of lying in court."

Back when they were dating, he would tease her about the time she had perjured herself on his behalf. "I've seen you lie on a stack of Bibles, woman—you have no credibility" he would crack, whenever she claimed to like the crappy TV show he had just forced her to watch, or made flattering statements about his prowess in bed.

"Thanks," was all he said now.

"I didn't do it for you, House. I did it for the hospital."

"I know. But thanks all the same."

"You're welcome," she said. There was something so impersonal in the way that she said it—she truly could've been talking to a stranger—but he saw it as an opening, no matter how slight.

"Cuddy. . .I. . ."

"Don't," she said sharply. "Don't read anything into this. You're a valuable asset to this hospital and that is all. You mean nothing to me."

House fiddled with his cane, closed his eyes.

"I miss you," he said, almost inaudibly. "Don't you miss me even a little?"

"No," she said.

#####

House had been back at the hospital for almost a year when Wilson came into his office. He had a somewhat pained look on his face.

"Did you hear?" he said.

"Hear what?"

"Cuddy's mom died," Wilson said.

"What?" House tried to process the news. He felt slightly sick. "How?"

"Massive heart attack. In her sleep."

"Jesus, poor Cuddy. That's horrible."

"In accordance with Jewish custom, the funeral is tomorrow," Wilson said, hesitating a second. "And I think you should stay away."

"And why do you think that?"

"Because being around you is painful to Cuddy—and I don't think you should add to her pain."

"I'll take it under advisement," House said.

######

The funeral was a bit of a blur to Cuddy.

Rachel still didn't fully grasp the finality of death—she kept asking when she could play with grandma again—but she did at least seem to grasp the solemnity of the occasion. She clutched Cuddy's hand tightly and was uncharacteristically quiet.

Julia was a mess. She'd always been closer to Arlene. Luckily, her husband was a complete rock. Cuddy saw him rubbing her shoulders reassuringly during the ceremony. She had a momentary pang. She looked at Wilson, who was sitting next to her. He squeezed her hand.

The ceremony was nice—the rabbi had known Arlene for years and spoke warmly of her stubbornness and outsized personality. The gatherers cried and then they laughed, as it should be at a funeral.

As she was numbly leaving the temple, Cuddy noticed a hunched figure in the far back row, in the shadows. His head was slightly bowed, his long legs were bent uncomfortably into the pew. He didn't look up—but even if she hadn't seen his cane, she'd know that posture, that sort of sad and regal face, anywhere.

House.

#######

Cuddy took a deep breath and entered House's office.

He was sitting alone at his desk, looking at a scan, his wire-rimmed glasses pushed low on his nose.

He blanched a bit when he saw her, took off the glasses.

"Hi?" he said, like it was almost a question.

"Hi," she said. She paused for a long while. "Thank you for coming to the funeral. It was . . . nice of you."

"You saw me, huh?" House said. "Wilson told me not to go. But I wanted to pay my respects to the formidable Mama Cuddy."

"Mom would've appreciated it," she said. "She thought you were an arrogant schmuck. That's high praise in my mother's book."

She smiled at him and he smiled back. They both seemed to want to say something more.

Finally, she said: "So anyway. That's it. Thank you."

She turned to leave.

"Cuddy, are you going to be okay?" he asked, when she got to the door.

She blinked away a tear.

"I'm going to be just fine, House."

######

Late that night, she went into the attic. All 86 of House's letters were in a box, tied together with a string.

She had never opened them.

She sat on a chair, made some tea, and pulled the first letter out of its envelope.

_Dear Cuddy,_

_It's me, your favorite jail bird._

_Well, it finally happened. My so-called "anti-social tendencies" landed me in jail. We both knew it was just a matter of time, right?_

_But here's the thing, Cuddy, the thing I can't quite wrap my mind around: I'm here because I hurt you._

_The irony of that, of course, is that you are literally the last person on earth that I want to hurt. You've never been one of the assholes keeping me down. You've been the angel holding me up. (That was pretty good, huh? Maybe I'll start writing poetry now that I have all this free time on my hands.)_

_So this sucks. A hell of my own making, I think they call it._

_I know that you always find it in your heart to forgive me, but something tells me I screwed up a little more than usual this time. (The metal cage I'm in was my first clue.)_

_All I can say is, I'm sorry. I'll apologize to you every day for the rest of my miserable life if it helps._

_Yours in carceration,_

_House_

_Hey-_

_Me again. So you didn't write back. Crap._

_I don't blame you. I wouldn't write back to me either._

_I keep having these nightmares where I hurt you and Rachel and then I keep waking up and. . .well, you know the rest. . . the nightmares are real._

_I don't want to blame the vicodin. . but did I mention how much vicodin I was on that day?_

_Lots. Lots and lots of vicodin._

_I'm not making excuses. That was me. Driving the car. Wielding the brush. (Hey, at least I returned your brush, right? Bad joke.) I remember actually feeling good about it at the time. It was a release, you know? I think you and Wilson had observed that I wasn't "in touch with my feelings."  
><em>

_Well, now I am in touch with my feelings and here's how I feel: Like complete and utter garbage._

_On the bright side, you'll be happy to know that my cellmate looks like a villain in a Bond film, the neo-Nazis around this joint like to use my skull as punching bag, and I'm on this tiny regimented dosage of vicodin that keeps me just on the edge of constant agony._

_Guess I deserve it._

_I leave you with this deep thought: If you write a letter from a chain gang is it considered chain mail?_

_Yours in the Big House,_

_House_

_Dear Cuddy-_

_I'm dying in here. Well, not literally. Well, kind of literally._

_Can't you just give me some sort of sign—maybe a letter or a phone call or a smoke signal to tell me that you are okay and that you don't completely hate my guts?_

_I'm feeling pretty alone._

_-H_

At some point, he stopped asking for forgiveness and just started writing about his day to day activities.

_Hey-_

_I didn't' t know it was physically possible to remove all flavor from food, but they have done it. It looks like meatloaf. It vaguely smells like meatloaf. It seems to even contain actual meat. But it tastes like pre-digested cardboard. Geez, who do you have to kill for a little flavor around this joint? (Just a little prison humor for ya.)_

_-H_

_p.s. I'm sorry._

_Hey-_

_I found the one positive thing about this hellhole. Books. For some reason, people like to donate books to us degenerate types. There is an entire section on dark matter and the Big Bang Theory and Dwarf Galaxies in the library—completely untouched. They're slightly less popular with my fellow inmates than the comic books._

_Speaking of which, there are tons of children's books—even some of those Big Red Dog books Rachel likes so much—and a whole kid playroom here, too. So if you and Rachel ever wanted to visit, she'd have lots of stuff to read and play with._

_Yeah, I know. . .wishful thinking._

_Yours in contemplation of the universe,_

_-H_

_p.s. I'm sorry._

_Cuddy-_

_How's the hospital? That one creepy anastheologist still hitting on you all the time? Dr. Singh still boinking Nurse Judy? Has anyone found the television remote in the nurse's lounge? (If it happens to be found in the bottom right drawer of my desk, under my stash of Goldfish crackers, that is just a coincidence. I swear I didn't take it.)_

_How's my boy Jimmy Wilson? You guys keeping each other out of trouble? Say hi to him for me, okay? In case you were wondering, he apparently hates my guts, too._

_-H_

_p.s. I'm sorry._

_Cuddy-_

_If you're trying to teach me a lesson_, _it's working. I'm actually freaking out right now. Are you never going to talk to me again, or what?_

_If I could turn back time, I'd do everything different. And not just the whole car/house/psychotic-episode thing_.

_I'd be a better boyfriend to you. A better father figure (or whatever I was) to Rachel. A better friend to Wilson. A better doctor. A better. . . everything._

_God, nothing like spending 6 months in prison to give a man perspective on what a fucking mess he's made out of his life._

_-H_

_p.s. Sooooo sorry._

Cuddy realized that she was crying. She put the letters back in the box and tried to get some sleep.

A few days later, she made her way to Wilson's office, closed the door behind her and sat.

Wilson looked up expectantly.

She sighed, steeled herself.

"How is he?" she said.

"How's who?" He knew, but he just wanted to make sure.

"Nurse Jeffrey," Cuddy cracked. "House, of course."

"He's fine."

"Fine?"

"What do you want me to say Cuddy? He's fine. He's . . .House. He's got his team and his puzzles and his bullet-proof sarcasm. Are you asking if he's consumed with regret? Are you asking if there's a giant Dean-of-Medicine-sized hole where his heart used to be? Yes and yes."

Cuddy looked at the floor, became fixated on a small scuff on the toe of her pump.

"He came to my mother's funeral you know," she said finally.

"No, I didn't know that," Wilson said. "For what it's worth, I told him not to go."

"It was okay. He laid low, in the back."

"Imagine that," Wilson mused. "Gregory House trying to be inconspicuous. . ."

"I wouldn't have even noticed him, except I seem to have some sort of ESP when it comes that man," Cuddy chuckled.

Wilson smiled at her.

"I sense him looking at me sometimes, too," she said. "When he thinks I don't know he's there."

"He misses you," Wilson said.

"Yeah," she said. She wet her thumb, tried to rub the scuff clean—but it was apparently a permanent part of her life. "I miss him, too."

"Well, he's right here. He's been here all along," Wilson said.

"I just don't know if I can . . . take the risk," Cuddy said.

"Risk what? That he's going to hurt you again? Or that you're going to fall in love with him again?"

"Both," Cuddy said.

#######

Two days later, House got home from work to find an envelope that had been slipped under his door.

He recognized the stationery and the handwriting right away. He felt a small chill go down his spine.

He didn't even take off his coat. Just ripped open the envelope and started to read.

_Dear House-_

_So I lied about burning those letters. I didn't burn them. I kept them in a box in my attic. I finally read them last week. (Yes, all of them.)_

_And as I read them, and as they made me laugh and cry and want to throttle you all over again, I realized one thing: I miss you, House. Two years is a long time to go without talking to your best friend. . ._

_I've been so angry at you. So incredibly angry that we had this amazing friendship_, _this amazing love story (okay, one with a sad ending, but amazing all the same) and that you fucked everything up._

_And I just don't how to reconcile these feelings: Missing you, being angry with you, being angry with myself for letting you in so deep . . .And where does Rachel fit into all of this?_

_Can I ever really let you around my child again? (Would you?)_

_But then you came to my mother's funeral. And it meant the world to me, House. Because the milestones in my life—even the shitty ones—just don't seem real without you there. You've been the primary witness to my life, in a strange sort of way. The person whose opinion always mattered the most, the person I've most wanted to impress, the person I was always the most drawn to._

_I love you like I've never loved anyone else. And I hate you like I could never hate anyone else, too._

_So all I know is this: No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to shake you. And somehow, some way, I'd like to find a way to have you back in my life._

_I make no promises, House._

_But maybe we can start by saying hello to each other in the hall._

_-Cuddy_

He read the letter over and over again—just standing there in the entranceway to his apartment. Finally, his leg buckled a bit beneath him. He slid slowly to floor. And he cried. Because he'd done a terrible thing. Because she hated him. Because she loved him. Because it was a start.


	2. Chapter 2

He was working late on a Tuesday night when Cuddy appeared unexpectedly in his doorway.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," she said back.

His office was dark except for a small lamp on his desk, which bathed her in a warm light.

"You look beautiful," he told her.

"No, I don't," she said, smoothing her hair, smiling sheepishly. "I'm a mess."

"You always look beautiful to me."

"Thank you, House. But I just came to say goodnight, nothing more. So. . .good night."

She turned to leave.

"Cuddy, your letter meant the world to me," he said.

She stopped in her tracks, hesitated, then turned to face him.

"You didn't think I could stay away forever, did you?" she said softly.

He got up, limped toward her. He was standing inches away from her—they were close enough to kiss.

"House, we talked about this . . ."

"About what?"

"About getting too close," she said.

"There's no such thing as being too close to you," he said. He took his hand and lightly caressed her cheek.

"Are you seeing anybody?" he whispered in her ear.

"No," she admitted. "I haven't touched another man since you."

"Good," he said.

He leaned down, lifted her off the ground just a bit, and kissed her. At first she resisted, but then she succumbed—and the intensity of her ardor nearly overwhelmed them both.

Almost frantically, and with one fell swoop, he cleared the contents off his desk—papers, pencils, and paperclips went flying.

They fell back on the desk and began to hastily peel off their clothing. Her skirt and blouse. His belt and pants.

She was furtively kissing and grinding against him now, a woman who'd been in the desert finally allowed to drink.

"House," she moaned, as he mounted her. "God, I've missed this so much. House. . House.. House! HOUSE! HOUSE!"

He popped open his eyes.

Wilson was standing in the door to his office, his arms folded.

"Good lord, man, that must've been one helluva dream," Wilson said.

"I. . .fell asleep at my desk," House said, rubbing his eyes. He was pretty sure his face was bright red.

"I noticed. You wanna get out of here and grab a drink?"

House looked down at his lap.

"Yeah, I. . .just give me a minute, okay?"

In fact, the first time he saw Cuddy after receiving the letter was a few days later.

She was in the hallway, talking to Dr. Falwell, the head of obstetrics, when he passed by.

He had learned, over the past year, to avert his eyes when he saw her, to walk by quickly, even wait for her to pass before proceeding, but her letter had emboldened him.

We can start by saying hello to each other in the hall.

So he cocked an eyebrow in her direction and smiled.

She smiled back and gave him just the tiniest wave.

It was insignificant, about as personal as a handshake, but House's heart swelled.

He felt like she had just accepted a proposal of marriage.

Two days later, the elevator door opened and she was inside.

"I'll. . .uh. . .wait for the next one," he said, bowing his head.

"No, it's okay. You can come in."

He reluctantly stepped in. They were quiet for a second.

"Cuddy, I've been meaning to thank you for your letter," he said.

"You're welcome," she said. "It was actually good to get that all off my chest. It was cathartic."

"I'm just grateful that you gave me an opening, no matter how small. I promise to respect your boundaries and not, uh, drive a car through that opening—metaphorically speaking, that is."

He smiled. And he thought to himself that if she didn't smile back, he would die.

But she did smile—a familiar smile she gave when he had said something she found both inappropriate and amusing.

"Boundaries are good," she said, chuckling. "And the best thing about boundaries? They're meant to be expanded."

"Yeah," he said.

The elevator door opened and she got out.

It was several hours before he could wipe the dumb grin off his face.

It was early December now and the whole hospital was decked out for the holidays—sprigs of holly, twinkly lights, dangling snowflakes.

The previous night, they had erected the annual Christmas tree in the lobby—a large, stately evergreen with tasteful red and green ornaments. There were actual gifts for the children in the cancer ward underneath it—and in the weeks to come, the staff and hospital visitors would add more. The lobby smelled wonderfully of pine.

House swung through the front doors—wearing a wool overcoat and a loosely knotted scarf. He saw Cuddy standing by the tree and limped up to her.

"Oh God, is it really that time of year already?" he said.

"Yup, comes around once a year, usually this time," she joked.

She was looking wistfully at the wrapped gifts for the children. They always made her a little sentimental.

"Perhaps this will be the year I finally acquire that terminal condition known as holiday cheer," House said, watching her.

"Doubtful," they said in unison. Then they both laughed.

"Big plans for the holiday?" he asked tentatively.

"Trying to explain to Rachel why she can't have a Christmas tree," Cuddy said. "Menorahs just don't cut it for her these days."

"True. But dreidels are pretty sweet," he said.

They both flashed to the exact same image: House playing with dreidels on the floor of Rachel's room. They had a contest to see who could keep their top spinning longer. House won.

"Tell the kid I said happy Hanukah, okay?" he said. "If that's alright, I mean.."

"I can do that," she said. She gave him a generous smile and walked away.

The office Christmas party was a few days later—the hospital had rented out a restaurant, as it always did—and Cuddy found herself falling back into an old, familiar pattern: looking around the party for House.

She found Wilson instead.

"Is House here?" she asked, craning her neck. His team was sitting together at a table, playing some sort of game that involved beer cups and flipped quarters

"House? He hates these things. You know that. The only time I've ever seen him come to one of these parties was two years ago, with you."

When they were dating, she had dragged him against his will to the party. Hours later, she found him nursing a glass of scotch in an empty corner of the restaurant.

"This isn't exactly what I had in mind when I asked you to be my date to the Christmas party," she said.

He smiled guiltily at her. He'd watched her work the party for a while—admiring how she glided effortlessly from one conversation to the next, charming everyone in her wake—and hoped she'd be occupied enough to not notice when he slipped away.

Now he took her in—she was wearing a skin-tight black cocktail dress that had a little swath of sheer fabric above the bodice and dark gray suede pumps.

"How am I possibly expected to concentrate on making small talk, when you're wearing that dress?" he said.

She smiled, despite herself.

He swiveled his bar stool toward her, put his arms around her waist.

"Let's go make our own party," he said.

"I'll make you a deal, Scrooge. You give me 30 minutes of holiday party small talk and I'll let you. . . unwrap me when we get home."

His eyes practically popped out of his skull. He stood up.

"How bout those Giants!" he said loudly and to no one in particular, striding purposefully toward the party.

"So what's going on between you two?"

She realized that Wilson was talking to her.

"I'm sorry? What?" she said.

"You and House. He told me you're talking again?"

"Yes, there's been a . . .détente, however slight."

"And how are you feeling about it?"

"Good," she said thoughtfully.

"And how is he feeling about it?"

"Good . . .I think," she said. "What did he tell you?"

"Not much. Just that you were talking to him again and he was relieved."

"I guess that's the best word for it," she agreed.

Wilson nodded sagely, but said nothing.

The next day she did something she literally hadn't done in two years. She stepped into House's office.

"Would you mind looking at this scan for a second?" she said.

He was stunned to see her, but kept a poker face.

"Sure," he said. She leaned over his shoulder as he examined the scan.

He was trying not to inhale the scent of her too obviously. They hadn't been this close in a very long time.

"I missed you at the party last night," she said.

"I. . .you know how much I hate those things," he apologized.

"It just might've been nice to see you outside the hospital for a change," she said. "You'll be at Sanford Wells' New Year's party I take it?"

"Uh. . I wasn't. . ."

"House, you have to go! He's the chairman of the board. He only invited a handful of the doctors. It would reflect poorly on me if you didn't go."

House sighed.

"When you put it that way. . .okay, I'll be there."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

She beamed.

"Thank you," she said.

They both looked down at the scan.

"Do you see any reason why we can't operate on this tumor?" she said.

"No," said House. "It could be a little sticky right there"—he pointed at one spot, just under the temporal lobe—"but not prohibitively so. It looks operable."

"Good, thanks. Just wanted a second opinion."

She turned to leave.

"Hey Cuddy?" House reached into his desk, pulled out a crudely wrapped gift with a bow made of red yarn. "Put this under the tree for me, would you?"

Now it was Cuddy's turn to be stunned.

"You. . .bought a gift? For the cancer kids?"

"Just trying to acquire some of that holiday cheer we discussed," he said.

He threw the gift at her. She caught it. Shook it. The box was light.

"What is it?"

"Only man's greatest invention," he said. "A Slinky."

"Thanks House. You never cease to surprise me."

"Hopefully in a good way."

"Lately," she said. "I'd say have to say yes."

Was it possible that he had lied to her? Because it was nearing midnight at Sanford Wells' New Year's party—a swank catered affair in his enormous penthouse, complete with tuxedoed waiters and a live jazz combo—and there was no sign of him.

Shit.

Why did she care so much? Was this obsession with Gregory House ever going end?

It was frigid outside but she stepped onto the balcony to clear her head, get some air.

And there he was.

He was alone, peering out at the New York skyline, drinking champagne directly from the bottle.

"Hey you," she said.

He looked up, started a bit.

"Hey," he said back.

"I've been looking for you," she said.

"I've been here the whole time," he said.

"You must be freezing."

He was wearing a tuxedo. He had undone the bowtie. It dangled around his neck.

"The champagne helps. Want some?"

He handed her the bottle. He had swiped the good stuff—Cristal.

"Okay," she said, looking at the bottle skeptically. She took a swig. He smiled at her. He always liked when Cuddy loosened up.

"Did you at least let Sanford know you were here?" she asked.

"Are you kidding? I paid homage. I was disgustingly obsequious," he said. "You would've loved it."

She smiled.

"Thanks."

"I did it for you."

She looked at him.

"You look good, House," she said, almost despite herself. "You always knew how to wear a tux."

"And you look. . .freezing," he said, chuckling. "Here, take my jacket."

He took off his tuxedo jacket. Back in the penthouse, they could hear the countdown begin.

"10. . . 9 . . .8 . . ."

He helped her put the jacket over her shoulders.

"7. . .6 . . .5. . .4 . . ."

He pulled her hair out from under the jacket, smoothed it a bit.

"3. . .2. . .1! Happy New Year!"

The both laughed nervously.

"I guess we're supposed to kiss," Cuddy said.

House looked at her, with those puppy dog eyes of his. He inhaled. Then he leaned in and gave her a light, tentative kiss on the lips.

His lips felt lush and wonderfully familiar to Cuddy. They tasted a bit of champagne.

She kissed him again, a bit longer this time.

Neither dared to move. Then, with some urgency, Cuddy grabbed House, gave him a long, open-mouthed kiss.

Then she pulled away.

His eyes had been closed. He opened them.

A single tear rolled down his cheek.

She took her thumb, wiped it away.

"Happy New Year, House," she said, handing him his jacket and heading back into the party.

He swallowed hard.

"Happy New Year, Cuddy."


	3. Chapter 3

Cuddy was giving her annual "State of the Hospital" address to the department heads.

House and Wilson were sitting next to each other in the back of the auditorium. Wilson was dutifully taking notes; House was playing Angry Birds on his iPhone.

When the talk ended, Wilson turned to House: "Lunch?"

"I'll catch up to you," House said, gesturing to Cuddy, who was gathering some papers and putting them in her briefcase.

Wilson nodded.

"Very inspiring speech," Wilson said to Cuddy on the way out.

"Thank you," Cuddy said.

"He's such a teacher's pet," House said, when the room had cleared. "I'm surprised he didn't give you an apple."

"What do you want, House?" she said, somewhat impatiently.

"We need to talk," he said.

"No, we don't."

"We kissed."

"I know. I was there. It was New Year's. That's what people do."

"The first kiss, yes," said House. "The second one, okay, I'll even give you that. But not the third kiss. That wasn't a New Year's kiss, that was a 'I want to jump your bones, House' kiss."

Cuddy sighed.

"It was a romantic setting and we did a romantic thing," she said. "I assure you, it won't happen again."

"Who said I don't want it to happen again?"

"I don't want it to happen again."

"Why not?"

"Because it was a mistake."

House fiddled with his phone.

"Well, now that we've swapped some Auld Lang spit, maybe we can at least graduate from saying hello in the halls to, I dunno, drinks? Dinner?"

Cuddy looked at him.

"We're not dating again, House."

"Fine," House said, slightly petulantly. "Just don't start getting weird, just when things were starting to get. . .unweird."

"I won't," she said.

And she collected her briefcase and left.

####

Two weeks later, House barged in on Wilson, who was in a private room with a 50ish end-stage cancer patient.

"Cuddy's being weird," House said.

"A little busy right now," Wilson said testily.

"You don't mind, right?" House said to the patient. "What would you rather hear: The insipid dronings of your moroncologist, or some juicy hospital gossip from the Bad Boy of Princeton Plainsboro?"

"I'll take the gossip," the patient said.

"I knew you were a smart woman. . ." he squinted at her chart, trying to read her name.

"Doris," the patient said.

"Doris. And just for the purposes of this conversation, Doris: Cuddy does not work here at the hospital and is definitely not the smokin' hot Dean of Medicine."

He winked.

"Got it," Doris said, winking back.

"How is she being weird?" Wilson said wearily. He was fiddling with the dosage on Doris's medication.

"She's been avoiding me."

"What's weird about that? She's been avoiding you for two years."

"She had recently stopped avoiding me, if you recall."

"Right. The letter."

"I got a love letter from her," House said to Doris.

"Also, a hate letter," Wilson pointed out.

"He's such a glass half empty kind of guy. I'm more of a glass half full guy, myself," House said to Doris.

"Me too," Doris said.

"Anyway. . .she's been going out of her way to avoid me in the hall."

"So what changed?" Wilson asked.

"We kissed," House said. "On Sanford Wells' balcony. On New Year's."

"Ohhh, how romantic," Doris said dreamily.

"It would be slightly less romantic if you knew that he also drove his car into Cuddy's house two years ago," Wilson said.

"He's not being literal," House said quickly. "Along with his inherent pessimism, Dr. Wilson is also a bit of an exaggerator."

"So I'm not actually dying of cancer?" Doris said.

House stopped, smiled at her—impressed.

"I like this one, Wilson," he said. "She's a keeper."

"Not for long," Doris said. "So you better get on with the story."

"Right . . . so I want to make something perfectly clear to you both. It wasn't like I manhandled her. I didn't take her in my arms, Rhett Butler-style, and sweep her off her feet. She kissed me. If anything, I was the Scarlett figure in our little lip lock."

"Now there's an image I won't be able to get out of my head," Wilson said.

"So what should I do?"

"Talk to her," Wilson said.

"I already did that, after the State of the H, remember?"

"Then give her her space."

"That's all I've been doing for the past year. . .I thought we were moving beyond that."

"Then talk to her."

"You're repeating yourself, Wilson. . .has he been dipping into your meds again, Doris?"

"Probably," Doris said.

"Look, you have two options: Give her her space or talk to her again," Wilson said. "Your call. Now, if you don't mind, I have some treatment options I need to go over with Doris."

House sighed loudly.

"Doris? Any actually helpful thoughts on the matter?"

"I say grab her and kiss her again," Doris said.

"Finally, some good advice," House said.

He kissed Doris on the hand and left.

######

"What's going on between you and House?" Wilson said.

He and Cuddy were sliding their trays down the line at the cafeteria.

"Ugh. Nothing. What did he say?"

"That you kissed on New Year's and that you've been ignoring him ever since," Wilson whispered.

"I haven't been ignoring him," Cuddy whispered back, somewhat defensively. "I've just been busy."

"Uh huh," Wilson said.

"It's at least partly true," Cuddy said, paying for her salad.

"Well, he's freaking out about it," Wilson said, paying for his tuna sandwich.

"Him and me both," Cuddy said, as they sat down.

"So why'd you kiss him?"

"Same reason I always kiss him," Cuddy said. "It's my curse that I always want to kiss him."

"Maybe it's a curse and a blessing."

"His Buick through my dining room says otherwise," Cuddy said.

"He's really been trying," Wilson said.

"I know he has."

"You can't keep punishing him for that forever," Wilson said.

"Says who?"

"Well, then choose. Either you're friends—or whatever it is you two are to each other—or you're not. You can't string him along like this."

"Actually," said Cuddy, biting on a piece of lettuce. "I can do whatever I want."

#####

"I'm craving a steak," Wilson said to House over the phone.

"Thanks for the update," House said.

"What do you say we go to Woodies tomorrow night? Just the two of us."

"Wilson, this is all so sudden. . .I'm not sure I'm ready for this kind of commitment."

"We can smoke cigars and drink scotch and talk about monster trucks so no one gets the wrong idea," Wilson said.

House hesitated.

"My treat," Wilson said.

"Done," House said.

"Good. Meet you there at 8. And House? It's a nice place. So try not to look like a slob."

####

House was running late, as he always was—and, of course, he hadn't bothered to dress up. He was wearing his normal uniform of a faded black graphic tee, a rumpled blue oxford (complete with a mustard stain on the collar), a beat up overcoat, and Nikes.

When he got to the restaurant, there was no sign of Wilson.

Lisa Cuddy, however, was sitting alone at a table for two, drinking a glass from a bottle of cabernet that she had already ordered.

"Let me guess," House said, limping up her table. "Meeting Wilson for dinner?"

Cuddy looked up, blanched.

"You've got to be kidding," she said. "Wilson said he was. . ."

"Craving steak?" House finished.

"Yeah," she said, shaking her head.

She eyed him skeptically.

"Did you put him up to this?"

"I'm as blindsided as you are," House protested. "Do you really think I would've worn this outfit, if I knew I was meeting you. . .?"

Cuddy looked him over, gave a conciliatory shrug.

"Let's pay for this wine and get out of here," she said. "I want no part of Wilson's little intervention."

"Fine by me," House said testily, sliding into the seat across from her. "But I just drove all the way across town so I'll take some of that wine."

Cuddy rolled her eyes, then poured him a glass. She looked around impatiently for the waiter.

"Where is he?" she muttered. "He was positively looming before you showed up."

"He probably just thought you were hot," House said.

Finally, the waiter came over. He was clearly gay, thus shooting a hole in House's theory.

The waiter pulled a note out of his breast pocket with a flourish.

"Drs. House and Cuddy, I presume?" he said.

They looked up at him, surprised.

"Yes," they said cautiously.

"I have a note here, from Dr. Wilson. I'm supposed to read it to you once you've both settled in."

He cleared his throat.

"Dear House and Cuddy: I apologize for the subterfuge, but it had to be this way. You two seriously need to talk. Now Cuddy, stop playing with your Blackberry and give House a chance."

Cuddy, who had been scrolling through messages on her phone, put it down hastily.

"House, stop fidgeting, sit up, and act like a gentleman."

House, who had slid halfway down his chair like an antsy teenager, straightened his shoulders and sat up. He looked around the room suspiciously.

"I know this is tough," the waiter read. "But you two care about each other too much to not communicate. So sit, drink some wine, eat some steak, talk and—most importantly—really listen to each other. Also, House, you're buying. Love, Wilson."

The waiter took the note, folded it, and placed it on the table.

"Would you two like to order?" he said knowingly.

Cuddy looked at House, who stared back at her with those wide, expectant eyes of his.

"I'll have the petite filet," she said, sighing. "Medium rare."

####

They didn't get to the crux of things until they were onto their second bottle of wine and halfway through their entrees.

"What changed?" House asked. "Things were going so well between us."

"What do you think changed?"

"The kiss?" House asked. He really didn't get it.

"Yes, the kiss. The thing is, I wasn't supposed to kiss you that night, but I did. Next, I'll be accidentally sleeping with you. Then I'll be. . .accidentally falling in love with you again."

"What's so horrible about that?"

"It's not what I want," Cuddy said, looking him in the eyes.

"Why not?" House demanded.

"The fact that you even have to ask tells me my instincts are right," Cuddy said.

"What? Because of the car? Am I never going to stop paying for that?"

"I don't know House. What's the statute of limitations on destroying a home and giving a 3 year old nightmares?"

House looked down at the table.

"Rachel had nightmares?" he said quietly.

"Yeah, House. She did."

"Jesus," he said, almost to himself. "Is she at least okay now?"

"Yeah, she's fine. But I think you can see why I might not want to get involved with you again."

"But I would never do anything like that again," he protested.

"Really?" she said. "Because I didn't think you were capable of anything like that to begin with. Guess I was wrong."

He looked at her, almost defiantly.

"I've changed."

Cuddy nearly choked on her asparagus.

"Oh, that's rich."

"I have."

"Bullshit, House. You've said it yourself, oh, about 10 thousand times: People don't change. It's your life philosophy. You practically built a whole medical practice around it."

"There's an asterisk next to that philosophy: When you hit rock bottom, destroy the house of the love of your life, go to jail, lose all your friends, get clean, go to anger management, and start to slowly rebuild your life. . . you can change," he said. "It's a very specific set of circumstances, I grant you, but it can happen."

"I'm. . .the love of your life?"

House smiled. He was pleased that, of everything he had just said, that was one thing she had picked up on.

"Of course," he said.

"What about Stacy?"

"I loved her, too. But she didn't love me at my absolute worst. You did. . . until my absolute worst got, well, worse. Also, Stacy doesn't come complete with adorable bonus human."

Cuddy smiled, despite herself.

"I wish I could believe you, House," she said.

"You can," he said.

He reached across the table and took her hand. Much to his relief, she didn't pull it away.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I know you are," she said, softening.

"No," he said. "I don't think you know just how sorry I am."

"No," she said, nodding. "I really do."

"Then I'll stay patient."

"Thank you."

"I'll wait another ten years if that's what it takes," he said.

She looked down at his hand, squeezed it a bit.

"Maybe not ten years," she said.

"God I hope not," he joked. "Have you seen my liver lately? I'm not sure how much longer it can hold out."

She laughed, shook her head.

"You're impossible," she said.

"I know," he said.

He raised his glass.

"To James Wilson: A meddler, a master manipulator, and . . . a true friend," he said.

"To Wilson," she said.

They clinked.

####

Afterwards, he walked her to her car.

"Thank you for buying me dinner," she said.

"You're welcome," he said. "I'll happily get tricked into buying you dinner anytime."

"Maybe next time, I'll buy," she said.

Next time.

"That sounds good," he said, staring at her.

It was cold and she was bundled up for the winter. He could see her breath. He wondered if she knew how beautiful she was to him.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked.

"Some advice I got earlier," he said truthfully.

"What kind of advice?"

"A very wise woman told me to grab you and kiss you," he said. "Although I guess I just ruined the element of surprise."

"So what's stopping you?" she said. She was a little drunk, her voice had slightly flirtateous quality to it.

"Boundaries," he said.

She gave that sexy smile of hers.

"Oh but boundaries are meant to be expanded, remember?"

"Right," he said.

He took her face in his hands and leaned down. She closed her eyes, her lips parted ever-so slightly. He was almost sick with longing for her. But he forced himself to kiss her . . . and let go.

"That was nice," she said, sighing a bit.

"Cuddy," he said. "Promise me you're not going to get weird on me again, okay?"

"I promise," she said thoughtfully.

"Good."

He opened her car door and she got in.

"Goodnight," he said.

"Goodnight House."

As he began to limp away, she rolled down the window.

"House?"

"Yeah?"

"Lunch tomorrow in the cafeteria?"

"I'd love that."


End file.
